| (no subject) |
[Sep. 21st, 2009|02:29 am] |
KTHXBYE! THIS LJ IS NO MORE.
See you if i see you around, sluts.
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 15th, 2009|03:02 am] |
"I've got nothing, you should see me,
I smoke myself to sleep.
And blame postmodern things I can't relate,
Like summer camp and coastal states.
Like alcohol and coffee beans.
Dance floors and magazines [...]
I'm at a loss, you were my tangerine,
My pussycat, my trampoline.
Now all I get are wincing cheeks,
And dog problems, I signed a lease.
Thinking my heart belonged at 93rd and park.
Instead I broke a girl’s heart,
And flew back to Phoenix to finish the year as it started."
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 14th, 2009|05:03 am] |
| [ | music |
| | acid house kings - do what you wanna do | ] |
I guard my profile on facebook zealously through the privacy settings. But I love how much information I can get of one's life just from their status updates, which is particularly sweet when I'm stalking them online. I take pleasure from reading about your upper-class shopping sojourns to high-end joints, even though I can't afford even a pair of fred perry shoes myself (let's not even talk about roberto cavalli). It's a complete turn-on to receive notice of your literary indulgences and evidence of your scholarly abilities, but even more so when I find out that you had been partying the whole of last week. Oh, how I adore your slutty behaviour. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 8th, 2009|01:33 am] |
Today is Meat-Free Monday. It started okay. Now I really want a pizza, preferably with pepperoni and salami, to congratulate my crying. It has been too long - a chasm swallowing all feelings, leaving a cold rationality that cannot and does not know how to feel and react to any circumstance, rendering the self unable to function progressively in the most linear of ways. The chasm closed and opened again, like a happening of a mythic Chinese folk tale involving terrible sins, featuring a lack of filial piety, the inability to empathise with the prospect of death, and some torturous fire-licking level of Chinese hell.
I'm waiting for you to come online. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 29th, 2009|04:47 am] |
I know this is fucking juvenile (the stuff of 14 year olds' yesterday), but:
We're gonna save up for a whole fucking carton of OD, baby. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 20th, 2009|01:22 am] |
| [ | music |
| | Tokyo Police Club - Your English Is Good | ] |
Last week, two postcards from France. Last night, a surprise mix tape mailed over from far away. Wait a minute mr postman, it's my turn to be Lord Byron! |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 17th, 2009|03:59 am] |
I dreamt of Y., and how he walked away from me eventually. I couldn't call after him even though inwardly I was yelling at myself to, because it would be useless and I would be putting my pride down (which is inexcusable). When I awoke and texted H. to inform her sadly about this dream, she texted me simultaneously, informing me that she had bumped into Y. and he had asked after me. What telepathy, I exclaimed. No way, I'm a believer, she replied.
Still, you know, it's still useless. I miss him a lot, but this ain't goin' nowhere, and I want my gangster man to stick around and be jealous, not be some lame-ass excuse of a friend who ignores me but asks about my well-being separately. I'm sorry that we're from different worlds, because I really fucking miss him.
[added later] Revisited what I wrote about him before - good times, long ago. "I look at him, his look of concentration and focus on lighting the drag, and I want to retain the image in my mind. Not forever, but just for some time. He asked me if he could take me out for drinking. I said yes, and huddled up to myself. He said I wasn't a bad girl or wild child, just that I liked to try everything. I didn't know whether that was good or bad, in his books. We are from different worlds.
He tells me about his past, days that were dangerous as much as risky, soaked with blood and excuses that now seem silly. Lying down, staring at his side profile because he refuses to look at me and wants to be all straight and restrained in public, I listen carefully to and interrupt with questions, the stories about drugs, burning cars, slashing rivals, going to weddings and funerals because you had to honour your 'Brothers' and the "Boss", and other Bad Things. It is all very exciting, and what I really want to know."
I guess the story's all over. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 15th, 2009|03:09 am] |
Hello, I am Very Tired. I would like to order a milkshake, some fries and a side of sleep. Yes, I'm a regular customer, a pro-bono one, and I don't charge anyone for working. You're a fucking whinger so please transfer your damn foreign call somewhere else. Operator, are you a deux ex machina.
Hello, I am goddamn fucking tired and I would like a side of sleep and pills to kill. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 30th, 2009|02:16 am] |
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I need a new obsession. My life is meaningless. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 25th, 2009|04:30 am] |
Winning Best Playwright, and, Best Overall Production (shared with my director and fabulous cast, fabulous in more than one way) for S+S 2009 was brilliant, of course. K declared us as the true underdogs and the email from the festival coordinator today with the percentages of votes and detailed results from each week, left us in no statistical doubt about that. We had the lowest percentage of audience and judges votes out of all the plays at the galas, but we emerged the slumdick millionaires. In any case, the prizes are absolutely non-monetary. Just free tickets to various plays, an Arts House membership (worth $88), free passes to all museums (which we already have by the way, thanks to most of us but one, having an undergrad status).
So that's the good bit. The life bit? It says to forget the small victories. Yes, this is a big victory in some ways, a debut performance sweeping the awards. But in the larger context of things, this is nothing but a small victory. We are still small fry, always liable to be fucked up by people higher in authority than us. I've done this arts thing for 4 years, but I can't always be proud of my accomplishments which are only deemed so due to my age (not even 21), and these are not particularly dazzling achievements.
Paul Arden advises never to forget our own ego, that so inspires us to focus on ourselves, but I do also prefer to forget the small victories.
The night after most of my cast and myself got drunk in various degrees (from being wasted to slut to high) and slurring about how unexpected and surreal our winning was, I went back to the arcade to work, serving benglets, little bengs. Then I was back at the esplanade, but while we were victors on stage two nights previously, I was then there dressed like a robber, all in black, crewing and huffing and puffing unglamorously and carting furniture to the studios and ironing clothes for actors. No one knows and cares about these small victories, honey. Most of the time, I just feel like I'm living some sort of a triple life, with mostly failures, loads of adventures, and a singular victory.
The worst thing is how I manage to keep a whole lot of pent-up frustration within myself, because emotional as I am, I do not physically rage outwardly, except verbally on the phone. Now that the holiday that I was so looking forward to has just been made impossible, and that dreaded email from a professor came, I just don't want to sleep anymore.
If I could stay awake, perhaps everything will just die like a monster aging away. But when I sleep, it rears up like a nightmare and I lie in bed immobile the next morning, dreading every ray of sunshine, every reminder that my heart pumps for nothing but my incompetence.
/add: So I just recall that I have a rehearsal in five hours, a casting reading. Do I want to do this? Yes. Do I want to go out? No. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 25th, 2009|04:20 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  depressed | ] |
city from cigarettes. says:
hey
you know
i can't go to vietnam
i'm working
i'm just in a fucking bad position at work
i couldn't try to change it
it will just be very bad
as a result
I AM FUCKING STUCK HERE
FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK
I FUCKING HATE THE SITUATION
FUCKING HELL
IT HAS ALREADY CAUSED ME PROBABLY A FUCKING (insert consequence) EVEN BEFORE SCHOOL STARTS
FUCK I FUCKING WANTED TO FUCKING GO FUCKING SOMEWHERE
ANYFUCKINGWHERE
I'VE BEEN SO FUCKING DEPRESSED LATELY
I DON'T EVEN WANT TO GO OUT
I just stay at home all day during my off days (practically working everyfucking day with two jobs anyway)
lying in bed
do you remember rock n roll radio? says:
:(
Jason says I'm overworked. I would just like to strangle something now. Or throw a vase and smash it. |
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| "you are a bloody perv" |
[Jul. 6th, 2009|03:03 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | pleased / accomplished | ] |
It's only been less than twelve hours, and I miss him already. Crazy and frivolous innit?
I'm so glad that I managed to molest him last night. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 2nd, 2009|04:29 am] |
I went to the airport today to send a friend off, wondering over the fact that I could have been performing the same ritual 13 days from today: eating Popeye's with my second brother, calling my friends for a last-minute goodbye, dragging my luggage, pushing the trolley around excitedly like a child until my mother yells at me to behave (even at 20), clinging onto my father, looking at the departure screens of the airport telly. I narrated the sequence of my thoughts to a friend. "Yeah, I know," she looked at me sadly. "Dammit, I didn't get to get the five dollar voucher at Popeye's for departing passengers. And I don't get to do the Jackpot Redemption thing beyond the departure gates, damn!" She laughed appreciatively. "You always have a way of making things look better/cheering things up". Hell yeah; if I didn't, I'd be killing myself by now, no?
I could be in New York in two weeks time, setting a trail for the devil to erase. I guess the devil got to me first. Goodbye for now, New York, and all the lovers and love that could have come with it. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 16th, 2009|12:45 am] |
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My apartment will probably look like a child-care centre. It'll be (a) cosy (b) lived-in (c) warm. I'll probably have the bare minimum of furniture because I'll forget to put that on my housing expenses list and splurge on art prints, small framed photographs, and wall decals. The first thing I think of is never furniture, but art on my walls, and it's highly likely I'll sleep on a mattress. But of course, I'll need a dining area for my voracious eating habits, and a good quality non-stick frying pan and eggs in my fridge. Last of all, I'll have a chicken jug sitting atop a counter, sticking incongruously out of the entire aesthetic of the apartment. Visitors will greet my chicken jug with either disgust, or bewilderment, or amusement. It will be an awkward point in conversations whenever we pass by the conspicuous chicken jug during the tour of the apartment. They will struggle with a point to be made, stammering diplomatically and politely, "uhh... well, that's a... unique... umm piece of twisted sculpture you got that. So... what is it?" or replace the word "unique" with an ambiguous "weird" or a diplomatic "ill-fitting" or a brutal "ugly". But I will defend it with a "what? It's cute what. I like it" and that will be the end of the conversation. We will then move to another part of the apartment and the visitor will sigh inwardly with relief and direct the conversation to somewhere more safe like my Edward Hopper art print. Housewarming gifts like abstract art will be rejected on the spot, unless it comes with ridiculous pretentious explanations that I enjoy, amused, with an assumed superiority complex. |
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| kenalkan cinta |
[Jun. 1st, 2009|05:08 am] |
Oh, fuck. Sometimes I wish I had a damn dramatic love life, practically filmic and with elements of utter corny drama which would be forgiven because of brilliant cinematography. I'd throw a few outfits and belongings into a travelling bag that looks vaguely fred perry, hop straight into a yellow-top cab, yell out, Changi Airport! (local) and please hurry, uncle, sit back and furiously punch out a number frantically, senselessly and call repetitively on my cell phone. It goes unanswered; an expression of anxiety, frustration and worry marring my countenance, I sit back giving short terse replies to the cab driver, insistent on carrying out a conversation. Perhaps I might explain the complicated and ridiculous (not to mention, fictional) situation to the driver, who will look at my reflection in the rearview mirror, with a look of pitying sympathy. (at night he will sigh and mumble a summary of this encounter to his wife who will glare angrily at him and blame him inwardly for their sad marriage and how they "don't talk" nowadays) Upon reaching the airport, you'll see me leaping out of the cab and running through the bright-lit spaces of the airport, looking around for a counter. I try to buy a ticket, the girl at the counter refuses politely, citing lack of seats. I beg, plead, and cry for her to check again. I stare at my watch, hoping that the flight of this hour will be delayed. Please, please, don't leave, I'm really sorry, I want to rush to you now and we can be real friends with each other this time. Perhaps finally, there is a ticket after all! Subtitles aren't available so you won't be able to guess the destination printed on the air ticket as I mumble out my flight details to check. And then......
nothing, because this entire thing is just lame. But maybe I said... I need a flight ticket to Hong Kong pronto. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 30th, 2009|07:13 am] |
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I wil mis yu lyk fuk. yu don't spalz tu gud but that is okay. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 3rd, 2009|05:06 am] |
| [ | music |
| | The Difference Between Men and Women - Bill Cosby (speech) | ] |
Tonight, M and I decided that we set the benchmark for girls guys never ever want their girls to be. Like being in those brochures with pictorial comparisons of school uniform rules, facial treatments, marie france bodyline before and after, std etc etc, you'll see us in the pictures marked with an "X" at the bottom. I'm always frivolously in love with people I can't even have. I'm not intensely intellectual, nor remotely hot, and I tend to laugh at more things than being serious about them. I sit along the streets till 3am, most of us sprawled around drunk in a most unglamorous fashion, cigarette butts littering the pavement (if I'm pretentious I will write: "cigarette butts littering the pavement like poetry"; I love deliberate self-aware pretentiousness). I am basically fucking ridiculous. Cue self-deprecate, because that's the only thing that makes us laugh genuinely at ourselves in the least hurtful and even playful and fun fashion. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 25th, 2009|02:50 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Cuban Danube - Klazz Brothers & Cuba Percussion | ] |
cb, my studying is going at the rate of a snail strolling in botanic gardens, riddled with all sorts of distractions (read Restaurant City on facebook). Read Strasberg, now, now, now! (but Kerouac says burn, burn, burn) |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 18th, 2009|11:24 pm] |
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Okay you know what? This is just fucking crazy. I am just going to concentrate on... normal activities. Like sk8boarding, going to bars without drinking, attempting to read the complete R & J text for the 8th time (I have never gotten past the first nine pages), dreaming, watching 'Allo 'Allo, snacking excessively etc etc. Everyone's either a new str8-turned-lesbian on the block, or a bloody player. Wah like that, I also can be player oredi. What the fuck. Oh, and everyone's also an actor too. I just... I'm just completely fucking floored at the moment. Just about anything can be possible. Fuck, I'm going to end up marrying an engineer. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 6th, 2009|12:53 am] |
| [ | music |
| | bob dylan - you belong to me | ] |
![trainspotting]](http://i326.photobucket.com/albums/k413/starsandvines/thetrainrushedpast.jpg)
Martina and I went trainspotting again last week. When we were nearing the tracks, we spotted an old woman holding onto a lot of grocery bags and crossing the tracks. It seemed nearly surreal, as if she would vanish like a gnome soon after.
Waiting for the trains, we took ridiculous low-quality photos (from my handphone camera) that was expected (and predictably dangerous) behaviour at railway tracks - for instance, lying across the tracks. We tried skipping stones in huge puddles of ditch water, like kampong boys. When the train came (unexpectedly from a different direction) and honked at us, I yelled "Martina!" and actually dove into a ditch, or rather, one of those huge ponds of awful ditch water, drenching my shoes completely (one of those stupid things in life you do). Martina didn't have enough time to get down, and she stood there right next to the rushing train, while I took the above photograph, soaked to the ankles. The train driver stuck his head out. The moment was magnificent.
Thereafter, smoking stale fags, we sat on the tracks and tried to write lyrical compositions on rocks with our pathetic stationery meant for school. We came up with "YOU ARE MY ROCK", "MY FRIEND VICKI LIES HERE", and "DELIVERY STR8 FROM THE ♥ OF MISERY". Meanwhile, we noted people crossing the tracks like it was a perfectly ordinary pedestrian crossing. Four men perambulated across like they were the Beatles in that iconic picture. A man unleashed his dog and threw sticks for it to fetch, as they took a walk down the tracks. I discarded my wet Spongebob socks along the side of the track and a spider crawling all over it for at least a good half an hour, probably hesitating if it should make my damp, moist sock, its new home. Unfortunately, I spoilt the beatnik vagabond blues moment by asking crassly, "eh, pass me my chrysanthemum tea". But everything else was wonderful. I love trainspotting. |
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